


Exposed Nerve

by deutschtard



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Manipulation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 05:26:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deutschtard/pseuds/deutschtard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal has seen just how far he has pushed Will, and it pleases him. He slowly garners more trust and pits Will against everyone else that could be helpful in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exposed Nerve

      The seizure had come a little earlier than he had expected, which annoyed him, it was unfortunate. Will showing up at his door with Dr. Abel Gideon, however, had been a most welcome surprise.

      The opportunity to plant another seed in his mind, to turn the screw of control he had over Will even deeper presented itself, and Hannibal could not ignore it. Will was so fragile, so vulnerable right now, like a newborn bird having fallen from its nest. It was all Hannibal could do not to crush him right there. No, that would have been too simple. He took much greater pleasure in making Will believe that his insanity had reached heights it had not reached, that his grip on reality was failing faster than it actually was. "There is no one there," he had said, looking right at the surgeon whose mind had been rearranged by Dr. Chilton in vain attempts at winning praise for having caught the ripper. He had smelled that the encephalitis had gotten worse, the heat had been so intense it was palpable, it had radiated off the shorter man, along with the scent of sweat, the pH balance was so that it had made Hannibal's nostrils flare uncomfortably.

      Will Graham had smelled of desperation, of depression, of destruction. He had smelled nothing like the aftershave with the ship on the bottle, he had smelled like Hannibal expected--like an ill man at the end of his wits. Seeing Will attempt to stand and follow him out was quaint, like a lost gosling trying to shamble after its mother. Will trusted him so much. Trusted him like bedrock, though he was quicksand, and he was letting Will slip deeper and deepr away from himself. The iceberg of his sanity was calving, frenzied waves threatened to engulf him as the pieces of his mind fell away, leaving him exposed like a nerve that Hannibal took enjoyment in prodding. Scientists understood much of the physical inner-workings of the brain from opening up skulls and poking various nerves, noting the response. Hannibal did much the same thing with Will Graham's stability. His words, his subtle lies were stabs at the raw wholeness Will tried so desperately to hold onto. He forced Will's grip on himself to loosen up so that he might slip himself inside, take over and guide Will into his true reality, the newness that he was carefully coaxing out with each nudging manipulation.

      When Jack Crawford called him, it had barely been an hour since he'd purposely left the keys and the gun on the table in his living room for Will to take. He knew exactly what the little savior would do when confronted with that freedom. He knew that Will saw the scrambled motivations of Dr. Gideon so well that he would shuffle his way to Dr. Bloom's house and stand outside her window, watching her like a swan in a cage, a tenacious beauty that he could only hope to experience.

      The alcohol Jack provided was not Hannibal's usual, but he did not decline a few fingers worth as they discussed the state of Will and Dr. Chilton. The whiskey burned as it forced itself upon Hannibal's throat and tastebuds, flooding every corner of his mouth as he sipped it. It was a lot like Jack, strong, stringent, controlling. It engulfed Hannibal's sense of smell momentarily, the way Jack engulfed Will's sanity in his own way. There was a difference, however, between what Hannibal did to Will and what Jack did to Will. Jack's motivations were external, the safety of the others, the safety of the world at large. Hannibal was only concerned with Will's safety, in a sense. He knew that the encephalitis would not kill him, nor that this illness that had nearly felled him would keep him out permanently. He knew Will's strength perhaps better than Will himself knew it. He would push him beyond his limits just as Jack did, but his purpose was to help no one but Will. 

It was easy, while Jack was talking about how the doctor may not make it through the night, to smile inside himself, to plaster a placid look, as tranquil as an undisturbed lake, on the outside. He took pleasure sitting in Jack's office, drinking with him as he urged him to disallow Will the use of a firearm, as though Jack Crawford would listen to him--he had ceased doing so long ago. This did not prove any different.      

      Dr. Bloom had gone to the hospital with Will, and he knew of the affections she held for him, the true, genuine affections that ran deep like a stab to the gut; affections he mirrored in his own way, though they only scratched the surface. Hannibal's affections for Will were barely a papercut, he appeared pained by Will's descent into his sickness, but beneath the surface he remained untouched.

      Bedelia Du Maurier knew something of what Hannibal's true feelings were, but even she was not allowed to see more than the scratch, the surface wound that could be closed and salved with chapstick, never to be seen again. He spoke of madness as medicine, hoping that she would understand, that she would see the world as he did, as blind, deaf, and lost in itself. Hannibal nearly wished the world could see itself through his eyes, the madness he had exacerbated within Will Graham, but he knew to wish such was folly, useless to waste energy upon.

      Still, he sought comfort in her sessions with him. He knew she found him as interesting as he found her useful. With her, he could speak of things in such a way that he had been able to do with few others. He spoke of this friendship he forged with Will, built upon the bog of lies and manipulations that crept higher and higher around the other man. Would she see the mud and dirt on his hands? No, she could not, Hannibal knew that though she did not see him as others did, she would not see beyond what she had described as his "person suit." He was safe in her home, in her living room, and her advice was sound, though misguided in his opinion. Hannibal listened with an attentive ear, though he already knew the tenuous tightrope he walked between the friendship he had constructed and the professional relationship he was expected to hold.

      Madness was medicine for the modern world. Madness was medicine for Will Graham, something he could use to cure himself of his empathy, break free of the strains of such based emotions and grow beyond them. And Hannibal would help him do just that when the time came.

      As he left Du Maurier's office, he drove to the hospital and sat in his car outside, staring at the stone wall of the building, imagining it to be Will's iceberg mind, calving in front of him. He could see the murky shape trying to break free from within it, but there was still something stopping it. Hannibal left the hospital without entering. Will would come back to him, as he always did, when he needed him, which he always did.

      Will would come, and he would be waiting.


End file.
